Song Ii Poem by Grace Greenwood

Though now it were madness to cherish
The dream that enchained us so long,
Yet shall it not utterly perish,
For thou hast embalmed it in song:
Its story's exquisite revealing
Shall live on the lips of the young;
Each change of its passionate feeling
Be gayly or mournfully sung.

Like honey-dew dropping on blossoms,
On hearts thy sweet numbers shall fall;
Thy lays shall thrill desolate bosoms,
And tenderest visions recall;
Now wild, like the rapturous greeting
That song-birds send down from above;
Now sad, like the tremulous beating
Of hearts that are breaking with love.